horse hair & sightless stare & poetry lair…

question mark feel

And the day moved like an aristocrat,
same slow slough toward evening spite.
Looking back, it might have been
an unanswered phone,
that kind of missing documentation
of causes unexamined;
though of course,
something better might just have come up.
If it’s to be a mystery,
does it have to be an LP?

And so on and so on,
repetition gets old,
gets stale;
everything piles up on everything else.
After a while, it gets hard to remember
what it was I was wading in,
the weight is no reminder,
mostly remaining heavy,
casting a pall and a
shadow and waiting
to be lifted
or burnt like fog.

And there’s no sense guessing;
I’m sure without too much work
I could drive myself
right up a wall or down the road.
In the snow with bald tires my chances
ain’t great for safety.
Simple assumptions being what
they are, the only real question
is whether or not
skidding on ice beats an
unanswered phone.

Just more to think about,
little to act on
other than artful insouciance and
hesitation. It
makes for an earthquake
during a hurricane.
Pictures are everywhere scattered,
and a couple even have
that face staring back through time
as if still framing the question
through failure to pick
up the phone.

Cigarettes make for company
on the couch,
ashes might fall;
still I’ve no fear of burn marks
on rugs or couches,
no fear of downers or blood
stains on shirts and shoes.
If there was a term for it all,
it might be called
cyclically elemental, unsophisticated
sophistry. Still, in silence
of shadows, early evenings,
when that damn monologue
begins.

If it’s to be a mystery,
must it be an LP?
Wouldn’t it be easier to remind
me that fucked up
might be a condition,
but it’s also my choices,
as well as where this trail
leads us to.

this must be
what a question mark
feels like.

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